


Wounds and Scars

by sophiastone



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean Winchester Whump, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Possessed Dean Winchester, Protective Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester Whump, Torture, Tortured Sam Winchester, Torturer Dean Winchester, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-23
Updated: 2018-08-23
Packaged: 2019-07-01 07:10:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15769134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sophiastone/pseuds/sophiastone
Summary: Sam never thought that he'd see Dean again...and when Michael stops by for a visit, Sam wishes he hadn't. Set after season 13.





	Wounds and Scars

It was two weeks since it happened. Since they had won. Everything was fine, Sam kept on reminding himself, a grimace wracking his mind before the thought could even complete itself. The Devil was dead. They had won. And Sam had lost everything.

In those final moments, as Dean fought to hold Michael back, fought to keep himself, Sam saw a pain in his brother’s eyes so sharp, so pure, that he was transfixed, unable to look away or even move. Helpless, he watched his brother struggle, the fight so brief and hopeless, and then - nothing. Dean was gone, and Michael’s cold stare tore out of his eyes.

Sam didn’t know how long he stayed on that dusty chapel floor, watching the spot where Dean had been, where Michael had stolen him away. Cas must have dragged him out eventually, taken him back to the empty bunker, healed his wounds — Sam couldn’t really remember, but now here he was, staring at the pockmarked wall of the library, the muffled memory of Dean’s laugh and the soft pop as he opened a beer echoing in the silent hallways.

“Looks like a Windigo outside Cleveland.” Sam realized that Cas had been telling him something. He’d missed the beginning. Cas’s voice was blurry at the edges, hardly making a dent in the impenetrable silence that filled Sam’s mind. Sam slowly tore his gaze from the wall opposite him and focused on Cas, who stood awkwardly at the doorway. Sam sulked up at him, saying nothing.

“Three victims already. Maybe we should, you know, check it out? Dean would want—“

“Dean’s not here, Cas.” Sam stared at Cas, hard, piercing, until Cas recoiled, dropping his gaze. Sam was full of anger, the corner of his eye glistening at the mention of his brother, and then - in an instant - he deflated, resuming his study of the library wall, Cas’s voice growing distant once again. Cas may have continued talking, something about a hunt up in Ohio, but Sam was gone.

Sam startled awake. He didn’t remember falling asleep, and his joints ached as he lifted his face from the table and shifted his weight in the rough wooden chair. He squinted in the dim light and looked around. Cas was nowhere to be found. Must have left for that case in Cleveland. Good, he thought. No one to bother him with memories of —

Sam froze. At the far end of the library, hidden in shadow, stood a man Sam would recognize even with both eyes shut.

“Dean,” Sam breathed. It was him. Relief poured into his heart as he rose from his chair and stepped towards his brother. He felt lighter than air, a smile making its way onto his tired, disheveled face even as the voice in the back of his head tried to tell him, this wasn’t real, it couldn’t be him, don’t be a fool…but he didn’t listen, he couldn’t. It was Dean.

Sam rushed forward, knocking over a chair in his haste to get to his brother, to see his face, to feel safe as he hadn’t felt in days, before BAM! The wind was knocked out of him as Sam was thrown to the far wall, his body clattering against a bookshelf before crumpling to the ground in a shower of musty hardcovers. He stayed on the floor, his head pounding. Looking up, the spots clearing from his vision, Sam saw the man step towards him. Sam looked up at his brother, unmistakably him, with a stranger’s smile plastered over Dean’s face. Michael.

Sam shrunk backwards, trying in vain to make himself smaller, flattened against the wall as Michael advanced.

“Hey Sammy.” Sam winced at the sound, Michael’s smirk dripping through Dean’s voice.

“Long time. How’s it going? I hear Cleveland’s got a bit of a Windigo problem, might want to look into that.”

“We had a deal!” Sam growled, rising painfully from the ground. He rushed at Michael, his eyes clouded with grief, and rage, his head pounding, his mind empty. He took a wild swing at Michael, his fist missing Dean’s face by a mile, before he was thrown back against the wall with an effortless flick of Dean’s — no, Michael’s — wrist. Michael looked down at Sam, crinkling his nose in disgust as Sam wheezed softly, blood dripping from a thin cut along the side of his face.

“Really? You would hit your own brother? He’s still in here, you know. Feels everything.”

Sam looked up at him, wiping the blood from his face, trying to block out the sound of Michael’s mocking perversion of Dean’s voice.

“We’re going to get you out, Dean. Don’t worry, I’m going to save y-“ Michael kicked Sam in the face, sending Sam reeling back down to the ground with a muffled shout. Sam stayed down, breathing hard.

“Look, I feel like we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot…as it were.” Michael chuckled to himself. “I only stopped by to ask you some questions. See if maybe you can help me out.”

Sam said nothing, pushing himself up against the bookcase with a grunt. He forced himself to look up at the man, Michael’s sneer plastered unnaturally over his brother’s face.

“What do you want?”

“There’s the helpful little Sammy-boy we all know and love,” Michael said with a grin. He paused, considering the man staring defiantly up at him, his face set in a grimace that did little to hide his pain and anguish. Michael continued, “I just need you to answer one little question for me. It’s about Charlie.”

“You stay away from her,” Sam growled, rising painfully to his feet. The thought, not just that Charlie was in danger, but that Dean — his brother, who was so close to her, and who already held himself responsible for her death — could be witness, and worse still, could be the tool used to harm her, set Sam off more than anything else. He could not, would not let Michael get anywhere near her.

“Just tell me where she is, and I’ll get out of your hair.”

“Never.”

Michael sighed. “I wanted to do this the easy way…” He looked at Sam expectantly, but Sam held his gaze, his jaw set. “Alright, guess it’ll have to be the hard way then.” Michael turned away from Sam and began to walk away, before stopping suddenly as if he’d forgotten something. With a flick of his hand, Sam was flung from the far wall back into the wooden chair at the center of the room, his arms and legs stuck to the chair legs as if tied down with invisible ropes. Sam pulled against the bonds, but they held firm. Michael stood a few feet in front of the chair and looked down at Sam, rolling his eyes. He snapped his fingers, and Sam stopped struggling, immobilized.

Michael said nothing, waiting for the reality of Sam’s situation to sink in. No point beating the defiance out of him if a few seconds of reality would do just as well. He stared down at his captive, whose pained expression indicated that he was continuing to struggle against his invisible bonds, despite the fact that Michael had rendered him completely unable to move. ‘You really do want to do this the hard way, don’t you,’ Michael thought to himself.

“Alrighty then.” Michael broke the silence. “Now, tell me where Charlie is.”

Nothing. “Really?” Michael seemed genuinely surprised.

Without warning, Michael punched him in the face, hard. Sam shouted out as the cut on his face reopened, blood dripping onto his collar, but he quickly raised his head again, staring down the man who wore his brother’s face.

“That all you’ve got?”

Michael responded with a flurry of blows, raining Dean’s fists down on Sam’s face, his chest, his stomach. Relentless, he unleashed every ounce of his frustration, his anger at this universe, its God, and this foolish little giant man, onto Sam’s body, which took each blow with little more than a grunt. He finally paused, panting a little, to wipe the blood from his knuckles. Sam’s head hung down on his chest, his right eye swollen, blood falling freely from new gashes on his cheek and forehead. Struggling to breath, he felt bruises forming on his ribs and tasted a fresh cut on his upper lip.

Michael stepped forward and grabbed Sam’s hair, painfully pulling his head back and forcing him to look up at Michael.

“Talk. Where is she?”

Sam spat blood in his face. Michael threw his head back down, wiping Sam’s blood off his cheek with the back of his hand. Rolling up his sleeves, Michael began to pace back and forth, visibly seething with rage. Sam eyed him warily, still slumped in his chair.

“Ok. Ok, we can do this if you want.” Michael came to a stop in front of Sam. “It’s like this. I’m going to keep hurting you until you tell me where Charlie is. I’ve got all day. All time, actually. I’m in no rush. So you tell me. How do you want to play this?”

Sam slowly raised his head, shaking a strand of hair from his bloodied face. “You know my brother. You know me. You know I am never going to talk.”

With a growl of anger, Michael lashed out, punching Sam so hard that he fell backwards, the chair splintering beneath him. Before Sam could reorient, he was lifted up and then crashed down onto the table, spreadeagled, his arms and legs again pulled tight by those invisible ropes. Michael leered down over Sam, examining him like fresh prey. Leaning on the side of the table, he put his hand on Sam’s throat and began to squeeze. It wasn’t enough to choke Sam, but the pressure seemed to build and build, making it harder and harder for Sam to breath. With panic in his eyes, Sam’s fingers scratched at the sides of the table in a hopeless attempt to get free. Michael was squeezing in earnest now, mercilessly holding Sam down by the neck as he struggled to escape the grip of Dean’s calloused hand. Just as Sam neared unconsciousness, Michael loosened his grip, didn’t release him, but lightened his hold just enough to keep him from passing out. Sam wheezed, pulling in each breath through broken ribs and bruised throat as hard as he could. Michael looked down at him with Dean’s piercing blue eyes.

“Do you understand?” He paused, looking down at Sam. “I could end you in an instant.”

Sam swallowed, trying to speak with Michael’s hand still crushing down on his neck. Michael released him, gesturing for him to talk. After several laborious breaths, Sam answered softly.

“But then you’d never find Charlie.” He rested his head back on the table, closing his eyes.

Overcome with rage, Michael grabbed a broken chair leg from the floor and smashed it down across Sam’s abdomen. Sam shouted out and doubled over, clutching his side in agony before Michael sent him sprawling back onto the table, arms and legs outstretched. Scrunching his eyes shut, Sam took several deep breaths, as if hoping the long, shuddering breaths would will away the pain. But they hardly made a dent.

“I’ve been doing this for centuries, Sammy. You _will_ tell me what I want to know.” Michael paced before the table, muttering more to himself than to Sam. “I just have to find the right…leverage.”

Michael came to a stop at the far end of the table. Looking down at Sam’s bloodied body, chest heaving, long arms and legs pinned to the table, he seemed to arrive at a decision. Sam eyed Michael, awaiting Michael’s next move with a kind of tired resignation.

Reaching into the pocket of his dark trench coat, Michael removed a long, thin blade. It shone in the dim light, its sharp point drawing Sam’s eyes in spite of himself. Michael gently placed the tip of the knife at Sam’s throat and traced it across his neck. Pausing at the far side, he exerted the slightest pressure, drawing a tiny droplet of blood before bringing the tip down to Sam’s collar. He tore open the top button of Sam’s plaid shirt and traced the blade down his chest. Transfixed by the knife, Sam’s eyes followed its path, craning his neck to keep it in his field of vision as Michael dragged it down his body, lower and lower. He held his breath, involuntarily flattening his chest to escape the mounting pressure as Michael pressed the blade into his sternum. Catching Sam’s eye, Michael gave a wicked grin, and Sam understood exactly what it meant: You’re mine. Holding Sam’s gaze, Michael tore through the rest of the shirt, throwing open the tatters to reveal Sam’s battered, bruised chest.

Without a word, Michael drove the blade deep into Sam’s shoulder. Sam screamed, his voice echoing off the library walls. The pain was incredible. Panting, Sam tried to regain control, his breath sharp, pain etched on his face. Blood began to soak into his shirt, his vision blurred as Michael stepped back to view his handiwork.

“I’m going to let Dean out, Sammy. Just for a moment.” He turned away from the table. “Dean — see if you can’t talk some sense into your brother.”

“What?” Sam gasped, craning up to look at Michael before collapsing back down with a strangled cry, the movement shoving blade deeper into his shoulder. He lay still, his eyes screwed tight against the pain, hands clenched.

“Sammy?”

Sam’s eyes flew open. That voice. It was him! Dean, not Michael in a mask, but Dean, truly Dean!

“Dean!" Sam couldn't believe it, his eyes watered with joy, his cracked lips broke into a smile of relief. The pain washed away in an instant, even as his forehead bruised an ugly purple and his shoulder, torn and skewered to the table, bled freely. 

"Dean, I’m so sorry, I’m going to save you, I’m so sorry, so sorry,” Sam blubbered. Dean rushed towards him and gingerly removed the knife, eliciting a soft cry. Dean held his brother by the shoulders, helping him up into a semi-sitting position on the edge of the table.

“You’ve got to get out of here Sammy. I don’t know how long I’ve got.”

“No, not a chance.” Sam sat up straighter, cradling his damaged shoulder. “Dean, you can fight this, we can fight this, we can get out of this together.”

“Sammy, you don’t understand. This — this is different. Michael, he’s not like anyone we’ve faced before. We’re like child’s play for him. Right now — I’m only talking to you because he’s letting me. He can take over again anytime. You have to run, Sammy. Now! You have to — Aaaargh!” Dean stopped short, clutching his head, face scrunched in pain. A single tear escaped the corner of his eye, and then, in an instant, he was gone. Michael stared out of Dean’s eyes, wiping the moisture from his face with a look of disgust.

Sam scrambled off the table, landing uneasily before crashing towards the door, tripping over the splintered chair on the ground and ramming into Michael with his damaged shoulder as he raced for the exit. He made it all the way to the doorway before Michael pulled him back with such force he was sure his bones had been torn from his body. He landed in a clump at Michael’s feet.

Michael shoved Sam’s bloodied shoulder with his foot, pushing him over onto his back with a pained grunt. Stepping over Sam’s unmoving body, Michael leaned on the edge of the table and looked down at his prey with mild disgust. Sam lay still, his breath ragged, his tattered shirt exposing a mosaic of cuts and bruises across his chest.

“Time’s up, Sammy.” Sam didn’t seem to hear him. “Tell me where she is, and this’ll all be over.”

Slowly, painfully, Sam rose to his knees. He pushed a strand of bloodied, matted hair from his face and craned his neck to meet Michael’s gaze.

“I’m…not…telling…you…anything.” His voice was soft, cracked, but it resonated with a power and determination so strong that Michael couldn’t help but flinch. Michael’s eyes filled with rage, his fists clenched, as furious at his own lapse in composure as he was at Sam's infuriating resolve. Without warning, he jabbed a knee up into Sam’s face, sending him sprawling back down to the floor. He strode forward, pacing, blind with anger.

He muttered to himself, seething, cursing, not noticing as Sam slowly crawled to the far side of the table.

“Cas,” Sam whispered, his voice hardly more than a breath. “Cas, if you can hear me, I need you. It’s Dean, he’s—” Sam gagged, his throat blocked as if he’d swallowed a cork. He looked up, clawing at his neck, straining in vain to take in even a tiny bit of air. Michael stood above him, his hand outstretched in a telekinetic choke hold. He held him there, anger etched on his face, watching the life drain from Sam’s struggling body. Just as Sam began to pass out, Michael released his grip, sending Sam wheezing down to the group. Michael spun on the spot, as if he’d heard something behind him. Turning back to face Sam, he kneeled down and pushed his knee hard into Sam’s chest, his face looming menacingly above Sam’s.

Spit flying from his mouth, he snarled. “Your Castiel won’t always be there to save you, Sammy.”

Michael rose, and Sam curled up, coughing weakly and holding his side in agony.

“I’ll be seeing you again.”

With a dark flutter of wings, Michael was gone.

Still lying on his side, Sam squinted through the pain that racked his body. His eyes scanned the silent, empty room, wary of another of Michael’s tricks. A few seconds passed, and then —

“Sam?” Cas tore into the library, his face plastered in worry. “Sam, what happened? Where’s Dean? Is he alright?”

Sam coughed. He tried briefly to get to his feet, before giving up and leaning back against the table leg. Cas stepped into the room, finally getting a look at Sam’s crumpled, battered form.

“Sam? What happened?”

Sam looked up at Cas — Castiel, Dean’s guardian angel, and Sam’s — well, Sam’s friend, he supposed. He closed his eyes again.

“Dean’s gone, Cas. He’s gone.”

Cas waited a while longer, but Sam offered no further explanation. Wordlessly, Cas knelt down and touched Sam’s forehead. His wounds, Cas could heal. But his scars...Sam’s scars would stay with him forever.


End file.
